Off the Record
by effywho
Summary: A series of one-shots prompted from whatever song title come up on iPod shuffle. Friendship, but easily slash if you want it to be. All set at different times pre-Reichenbach. Chapter 8: Life slash Dreams
1. Spotlight

**Spotlight**

It would be fair to say, I think, that Sherlock Holmes was a celebrity. This fact – which both amused and concerned John Watson in equal measure – was getting harder to ignore.

Every day they were flooded with emails and letters. Most were fan mail. Many were requests for assistance, and most of those Sherlock discarded for any reason from disinterest to speculating that the potential client had suspicious handwriting – something which he then went in to explain in great detail to an exasperated John, before tearing the offending letter to shreds.

Websites had begun to spring up. Some of them were innocent enough. Some of them were intent on tracking Sherlock's every move and identifying everything from where he lived to what brand of deodorant he wore. This wouldn't have been a problem, except that some of Sherlock's fans were becoming rather good at the deduction technique. Well, either that or they were tracking his mobile and catching slightly too much information from the crime scenes, were they often turned up in hope of seeing Sherlock in action. As well as this they seemed to have fairly active imaginations, and before long the websites were inundated with drawings and stories involving Sherlock and, much to John's embarrassment, himself. Somehow the fact that some of it was actually quite good made it even more confusing. John had dutifully kept tabs on all of this, until the content became so vast and unmanageable that it began to feel like a second job. And after catching sight of some particularly explicit fan art, John realised that the situation was entirely out of his control. Panic was building in his chest, he could feel it rising, and it became a constant.

Worst of all, Sherlock was shockingly lax on the topic. He remained baffled with the concept of fans, and soon ruled it irrelevant to his life, only stopping to now and then to laugh at their antics over John's shoulder. On one occasion he had caught sight of a ridiculous cartoon drawing of John in pin-up military wear, burst into laughter, and declared that it was to be placed pride-of-place on the fridge. For all John's efforts to prevent this, Sherlock triumphed. Not only did he put a copy on the fridge, but he also managed to cover one of John's bedroom walls in it, as well as giving several copies to Mrs Hudson for Christmas. After making the grave mistake of mentioning this in a blog post, for some comic-relief in a particularly dark entry, John would receive the image on a regular basis in the post, often accompanied by a wildly appreciative fan message from a teenage girl. Or, one time, with a wildly appreciative fan that turned out to be from Bill Murray.

Despite all this, Sherlock stayed adamant that no one was interested in him until an incident shortly after the case with Irene Adler.

It was in the wake of a movie night. These had become a standard event in the 221B calendar. As much as Sherlock complained that the films were unrealistic, terribly written, or just physically impossible, there was no denying that he enjoyed watching them with John. It was fascinating to him. It was a cosy, even. More perplexingly to Sherlock, that did not bother him in the slightest. The pair of them usually ended up tangled together on the sofa, in a way which would have left John somewhat flustered to be discovered in, but it was really only the natural progression of events: Sherlock complained, John turned the telly up, Sherlock muttered his critique practically straight into John's ear only to be laughed at, leading to Sherlock flouncing up and flopping on top of him like a maiden in distress. John would then snort and begin to push popcorn into Sherlock's curls until he noticed, which always took longer than it would because a) Sherlock was normally asleep at this point, and b) had usually consumed more than his share of John's beer, just to annoy him.

On this particular morning, they both woke up sporting dead legs and buzzing heads. After climbing out from under Sherlock's droopy embrace, John checked his phone to find several missed calls and messages from Lestrade. The gist of it was that they were wanted at Scotland Yard.

John knocked the popcorn out of Sherlock's hair, successfully startling him into consciousness. The gangly man jumped blearily to his feet and stumbled over them in quick succession. The whole thing was pretty comical looking, and Sherlock pretended to be annoyed when John made a noise that was either a giggle or a charily controlled cough.

Both men then hurried to get into day clothes and attempt to soothe the distinctly "bed head" look they had both acquired somewhere in the course of the night. This inevitably failed, and they left the flat with John tiredly fretting about the day ahead. It wasn't looking good.

The first sign of a disturbance was when they drew up to The Yard. A crowd was growing: thin at first, and turning into a good-sized flock of fast-talking people. There must have been 100, at least. Getting out of the cab, Sherlock and John both took belting to the ear drums. The noise was unintelligible, it was loud, and it seemed to be aimed at them.

John's instincts were stalling, this was not normal. But they were _fans_. They were _excited _to see them. For some inconceivable reason they were whooping and craning to get a good look. As the crowd began to close in John was torn. He felt threatened, and he felt that Sherlock was threatened: a deadly mix. His hand had predictably fallen to were the gun would have been concealed in his coat. He was slipping into old habits. He struggled to pull himself together.

All the while, Sherlock was not unaware of John's thought process and was immensely relieved to see that John was unarmed today. He had known the man long enough to know that this needed to end quickly or someone would bear the brunt; unlikely one of the screaming mass, but most definitely John when he later came to his senses. It was impossible to act other than to get a tight grip around John's arm, something which caused the crowd to go wild. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to shake John momentarily, and Sherlock relaxed as he saw John's arms fall limp at his side. He was going to be alright.

At that moment a young women threw herself forward with an autograph book, signalling a tidal wave of movement.

_Mob psychology, _Sherlock noted mentally. It was strangely interesting to watch how they fed from each other's actions and acted as one body rather than many bodies. They were anonymous and unafraid.

He did not have long to contemplate this; two burly police officers that he didn't recognise pushed towards them, jackets luminous and faces severe. In minutes they had Sherlock and John between them, and together they faced the madness of the surrounding crowd.

Once safe inside they were met by a wide-eyed DI Lestrade, who gave them both a stern word on security before demanding they accept some cheap machine coffee, which he paid for with a never-ending amount of silver change.

It was insane, he said. Someone must have tipped them off. They were looking into it, he said.

Sherlock and John didn't care. They were both too stunned; even John who had been painfully aware of Sherlock's progression to stardom. Was it the blog? It had did seem to have gained a kind of cult following. Or was it the newspaper write-ups, which had sprung up everywhere recently, which had caused the boom? Those were unofficial and unapproved by John, who screened what he wrote carefully to protect themselves and their clients, something which the papers had delighted in tearing into and exposing the truth behind. It was all very frustrating.

Later that day they were sitting in near about the same place, John eating cold pasta and Sherlock thinking about his new found platform, when a shuffle of unwilling footsteps approached.

Lestrade seemed to be pushing Anderson along in front of him. It was not an unheard of sight, but an entertaining all the same.

Then something unprecedented happened: Anderson apologised.

John choked on a bit of sweet corn.

Sherlock had a look on his face that was so gleeful that it could only be explained if Anderson had just confessed to having a massive crush on an inanimate object and Father Christmas.

"I may have...mentioned something on Facebook about you being called in today," Anderson was beetroot red as Lestrade pressed him to continue. "I had been getting an influx of friend requests, but...I didn't consider that they might have been _fans _of yours. Um...they must have spread the message over the internet. So sorry, I suppose."

Lestrade coughed indiscreetly.

Anderson looked around uncomfortably and then flung up his arms in despair. "I didn't know you were _internet_ famous!"

That was all too much, and for the rest of the morning, both Sherlock and John alternated between side-splitting laughter and trying in vain to act professional.

In the end they weren't fooling anyone.


	2. Cigarettes

**Cigarettes**

John is just about pulling his hair out. It's been 3 days of non-stop rain and a sulking, under-stimulated Sherlock. The detective himself is currently spread dramatically over the kitchen table, limbs elongated as they arranged themselves around the various beakers and chemicals that decorated its surface. From above it must have looked like some weird low-budget Tetris game. His head is hanging from the table top, his eyes wide open as he looks at John. His hair is looking eerily like a fuzzy, un-washed afro. John refuses to look away from the article he's been pretending to read for half an hour. Sherlock's face is growing steadily redder.

"John." Sherlock squirms, nearly sending his ridiculously expensive microscope crashing the floor. He catches it with one swift movement of his hand and proceeds to drum his fingers impatiently on a flask of nitric acid.

"John." Sherlock makes a noise like a part strangled horse.

"John."

The doctor throws the uninteresting newspaper to the floor in protest. "No."

With a swoop, Sherlock is off the table. He's in pyjamas, of course. Because why would he get dressed if there was no work to be done? He had gotten bored of causing small explosions days ago; though not before he had scorched the ceiling and set John's second best jumper on fire. Sherlock refused to apologize for the incident. If anything it served to make that comfortable monstrosity look better, he had argued. And it was hardly Sherlock's fault that John was still wearing it at the time.

Sherlock fell to the floor at John's feet, groaning dismally as he clutched at the fabric of John's trousers.

John rolled his eyes, knowing better than to try and kick him off.

"John."

"Sherlock, you had one yesterday." He sighed, "I still can't believe you got a kid from the internet to buy you cigarettes and put them through the letter box."

"Yes, thank you for confiscating those." Sherlock said curtly, "Honestly John, you're worse than my mother."

"It's for your own good. And anyway you promised, remember."

"You won't even let me have all my nicotine patches! It's absurd."

"Yes well since you managed to overdose on those I thought it best to keep an eye on_ all_ your nicotine sources. You can have one a day like it says on the packet."

"JOHN."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, it's not that bad."

"Not that bad? If I wanted a nurse maid I'd move in with Mycroft."

Mycroft themed insults: definitely time to change tact, John decided. Sherlock would work himself up into hysterics if he allowed this to continue.

Carefully, he leant down and unclasped Sherlock's iron grip on his jeans.

"I'm sick of all the moping," he said, "we're going out."

Sherlock's hair bounced as he visibly perked up at the idea. "Good. Where are we going?"

"I don't know. Just get dressed."

Sherlock surveyed him warily. "Is this a trick to get me to have a shower? Because you know I'm in the middle of an experiment which requires me to smell of nothing but bromhidrosis."

John wrinkled his nose slightly. "Smells like sweat to me."

Sherlock stood up, straightening his flannel t-shirt briskly. "That is rather the point."

This didn't seem to convince John, whose laughter could still be heard when Sherlock reached his bedroom. He slammed the door with a huff and a quick sniff of his armpit. He blinked. Maybe that particular experiment had run its course.

45 minutes later John, and a significantly cleaner Sherlock, stood in Tesco's.

"This was honestly the best idea you had?" Sherlock scoffed.

John snorted and pushed a pint of milk into his flatmate's defiantly folded arms.

"Actually, we were out of milk."

The penny dropped and Sherlock gaped at John in shock.

"You actually tricked me." Sherlock was disbelieving, but could not quite keep the pride from his voice.

John smiled.

"Welcome to my world."

**A/N:**

**Just to clarify, these aren't songfics; I'm just taking inspiration from the song titles and building one-shots around them. The list of artists and songs is on my profile, so take a look if you're interested **


	3. When You're Gone

**When You're Gone**

It was only supposed to be for a few days, but it had been one week now. One week of separation and indignant refusal on both sides to accept the obvious: they missed each other.

Sherlock was alone in Baker Street and he cursed the day he'd allowed John to go alone to a conference in Cardiff. He'd been busy, or so he'd told John. It sounded mind-numbingly dull at any rate. Well he imagined so. He hadn't actually been listening when John asked him to accompany him on the trip. John hadn't seemed overly offended at Sherlock's lack of interest; in fact it had been only three days before Sherlock had managed to convince himself that John had been glad that his offer had been turned down. He was meeting some old friends from the army, going to hear some seminars on field medicine or some similarly John-centric topic, probably. Why would he want the odd and socially inept Sherlock Holmes to meet his old friends, after all?

There was no way this so-called conference was still going on. Sherlock scowled to himself at his own decision to give John's texts the silent treatment. Ignoring John wasn't satisfying anymore: he despised being out of the loop, especially where his flatmate was concerned.

It had been seven days. John must be having a good time then. He was probably remembering how much he liked his old friends, maybe he was realising how much easier they were to get along with than Sherlock. What if he got on with them so well that he never came home? Was that likely? He didn't think so...John was fascinated by Sherlock's work and, dare he say, Sherlock himself. He didn't know why the idea of John moving out bothered him so much, but it did and, consequently, not even his mind palace was safe. The thoughts plagued him incessantly, and he found himself falling into darkness – and, of course, massive denial of said darkness.

Annoyingly, Mycroft seemed to have expected this and insisted on turning up every few days to give him the once over. This usually ended with a spectacular show down of deductions, which got steadily louder and more obscene as they continued. Usually it wasn't until Mycroft had made his brother suitably enraged that he left, with a flick of the umbrella and a smug _'I knew you were slipping'_ smile. He didn't care that Mycroft thought he was being helpful, because Mycroft never was and needed to stop trying. Sherlock didn't want Mycroft. He wanted to be left alone. He didn't want Mrs Hudson to insist on 'popping by' every few hours, especially when it was so painfully clear that it was on Mycroft's advice. There was only one person he wouldn't throw from his sight right now. And John was more distant than he'd ever been before.

Today he was bored. Yesterday he was bored. And tomorrow...yes, he would most likely be bored tomorrow too. He had solved six petty cases, eaten all the food in the fridge, and had ransacked John's bedroom several times only to find that John still owned exactly nothing of interest, save a few old photographs and a sandy medical kit. Currently he was itching to send John one of the many text messages he had drafted and discarded.

Approximately 124 miles away, John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

The pub was half-dead. A few old men drifted aimlessly at the bar. An eighties power balled sounded out weakly from a greasy looking jukebox in the corner. At least the people he was with looked vaguely cheerful, John thought dolefully. Ok, so maybe he was letting the side down a bit in that respect.

In truth, he was ready to go home. He was tired of the cheap hotel room. He had enjoyed seeing some of his old unit, but he did not enjoy the memories they stirred. He didn't want to talk about what happened in Afghanistan anymore. Once they had ran out of good times the talk had inevitably turned to the bad. They wanted to hear John's stories; they wanted to know if what they'd heard was true. They wanted to hear the worst of it. John didn't want to say any of it.

He had let them to keep him here long enough already.

He allowed a small smile as one of the younger men made a terrible joke, before turning his attention to his mobile.

**Dull. SH**

He chuckled to himself. It was the first time Sherlock had text him since he had left Baker Street, and he appreciated the fact that Sherlock did not do it lightly now. He had given up waiting for a reply, and had taken to texting Sherlock with a commentary of whatever he was doing, however dull, in the hope that it would distract Sherlock from his own loneliness. At least, he assumed he was lonely, or at the very least tired of talking to the walls.

**I'm fine, thanks.**

It was less than five seconds before a response arrived.

**Mrs Hudson messed up my sock index. SH.**

This was worrying. Was Sherlock really in such a state that Mrs Hudson had felt the need to search the flat? Immediately he was hit by guilt: he'd definitely been here too long.

**Anything else I should know?**

He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't be sarcastic about it.

**There are 62,000 miles of blood vessel in the human body. SH.**

Sarcasm it is then.

**Great. Anything relevant?**

A slightly longer wait this time.

**If they were laid end to end they would circle the earth 2.5 times. SH.**

John sighed, provoking several eyebrows to rise in his direction. He ignored them.

**I thought trivia was beneath you.**

For someone who claimed to 'delete' anything that didn't directly relate to his interests, Sherlock remembered some strange things...

**Simple maths, John. SH.**

His mouth twitched.

It was the first time he'd spent any good length of time away from his new home. At first he had enjoyed the space, something he hadn't realised he missed. But really, the entire trip had been nothing but reassurance that he had done the right thing. Baker Street was the right place to be. Sherlock was the right person to be with. It wasn't always easy, but it was nothing if not right.

Talking to himself, Sherlock had learned, was not nearly as helpful as talking to John. John listened, and questioned, and he always knew the right thing to say. He could bounce ideas off John. John knew when Sherlock was down, and he knew how to help him up. Sherlock knew how to calm John's nerves when he had nightmares. He knew that John didn't like Sherlock to psychoanalyse him. John knew when to stay quiet and when to intervene. Sherlock did not exercise tact, except for John. The appreciation was mutual as it was unspoken.

John looked at the people around him. They were mates. He had fought life and death with them. Hell, it had been fun. Seeing them again had been fun. They had been a part of his life once, but not anymore.

It was time to go home.


	4. Wash

**Wash.**

It was at the end of a particularly long day. 5am to be precise.

After much pushing from John, Sherlock had finally agreed that he did, in fact, smell terrible. The case had been a physical one, meaning lots of running and a good serving of Sherlock falling head-first into a rubbish tip; though he stubbornly maintained that it had been on purpose.

The only bathroom in the flat was the downstairs one, which also happened to be Sherlock's en-suite. This had been a little awkward for John at the start of their cohabitation, but after twelve months it had become something that barely registered in day to day life – although when Lestrade found out he had been mildly horrified at the idea, especially after the day in which he discovered that Sherlock found no shame in wandering around the flat barely clothed and dripping wet. John hadn't voiced the fact that, actually, Lestrade was just lucky that he hadn't arrived before John had berated him into putting a towel on.

Sherlock grudgingly sloped off to the bathroom, and John could have sworn he saw a conical flask containing a thick, red liquid in his hands. He rubbed his eyes and decided that whatever Sherlock was planning on doing with it, he didn't want to know.

Ten minutes later John was in bed and already drifting off. Early morning sunlight streamed in through the gap in the curtains and the traffic that never really stopped rumbled past regularly, but not even that could keep him awake now. Before he could even begin to contemplate the case they had been working on – and successfully closed – he was fast asleep.

For an immeasurable amount of time this was unbroken. But it didn't last.

John jerked awake and for a second he didn't understand why. He grabbed the gun from under his pillow but before he could even start to look for the intruder that must exist, he heard the scream. It was Sherlock screaming. It was raw and piercing and it sent chills down John's spine.

Sherlock was shouting his name. Sherlock was in danger.

John stumbled out of bed and practically fell down the stairs from his room, bursting through doors with a level of urgency that he couldn't control. All he knew was that Sherlock needed help before it was too late. There was no time for thinking.

Sherlock's room was empty; the noise was coming from the bathroom.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, "are you in there?"

He heard water splashing and Sherlock's pain was evident in his voice.

"John, I need you NOW."

John did not need telling twice.

The door was probably locked, but he didn't bother to check.

"Stand back from the door," he said.

With that, he slammed into the door with the full force of his body. He didn't even care that he was using his injured shoulder as a battering ram; he would endure the pain that this would trigger later. Sherlock's safety was all that mattered.

It was enough. The door trembled and shook. John kicked it once, and the entire thing fell forwards in slow motion.

John entered the room gun first, arm extended expertly, eyes scanning the room for the cause of Sherlock's distress. It was a small enough bathroom, and it was very clear very quickly that there was no on here other than Sherlock, and now him.

John stood tense, still waiting to see an intruder. But there was no one. He turned his attention to Sherlock, looking for injuries from where he stood, the gun still trained on non-existent villains.

Sherlock was in the bath, bubbles patched across the water, showerhead turned on and sending jets of water over his face. He was clutching at his head with one hand and attempting to pour bath water over it with the other, somehow managing to look like a very angry cartoon character. This was not helped by the fact that his face was bright red. Overall, it was a very un-Sherlock-like picture.

"What's going on? Are you ok?"

Sherlock looked at him and carried on with his strange water ritual.

"Sherlock, tell me what's going on."

Sherlock shuddered. "Nothing at all, I'm perfectly fine."

John glared at him, "Bullshit. You've just been screaming bloody murder. Now tell me what's wrong."

"I just miscalculated a little."

"What?" John stared perplexedly at Sherlock, who was looking much calmer already.

Sherlock made a noise of frustration, one which he saved for when he considered his companions to be particularly slow.

"The experiment, the experiment," he muttered.

John followed his gesture to the head of the bath, where the flasked red liquid sat, looking considerably less full than earlier and just as ominous. John took a step back in pure indignation. Had Sherlock really been so _stupid_?

"Right, what the HELL have you done?"

Sherlock didn't look as worried as John thought he ought to, though he was shame-faced, and maybe just a bit guilty looking.

"Calm down John," he said, "it's not as bad as I thought. I may have...overreacted slightly."

John's nostrils flared, "if you don't explain right now, so help me I'll –"

"John! I was merely bored of those ridiculous shampoos you buy, so I thought I'd try make my own. Science! If nothing else I made one that smells better,"

"You put homemade shampoo on your hair? Sherlock Holmes you utter _prat_! You could have burned your scalp off! Oh God, does it burn? Tell me, quickly!"

As he spoke he left the nameless chemical solution and went to inspect Sherlock's hair, or the possible state beneath it.

Sherlock barely winced as he probed at his scalp, an encouraging sign.

"No." He said easily, "You're jumping to conclusions. Have I taught you nothing? Data, John, data!"

On finding that there was _nothing _wrong with Sherlock's scalp, John had to resist a strong impulse to grab Sherlock's head and push it under the water.

Instead of this he folded his arms and glowered at Sherlock, who was now looking entirely too comfortable for his own good.

"I just looked for data, and it seems to me that there was none. D'you know what that tells me?"

Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

"It tells me that I just broke down a perfectly good door for NO REASON! I'm not paying for that to be replaced, Sherlock. It's your problem now."

Sherlock reached up to turn the shower off. "It doesn't bother _me._ I don't need a door here. It wasn't even locked. You would have known that if you'd taken one second to find out."

John took a handful of Sherlock's hair, not pulling it but knowing that if he had a weak spot, it was here.

"Why did you scream like that?" he demanded. It was too early, he hadn't slept in what felt like _days_, and he really wasn't in the mood for sarcasm.

Sherlock squeaked and John was compelled to let him go. Still being too soft, he scolded himself. He would never have let the kids in his unit get away with half the bullshit Sherlock pulled.

"I have sensitive follicles!" Sherlock complained, causing John to snort involuntarily.

"And I _did _just burn my head –"

He continued rapidly, before John could unleash the tirade of words he could see about to burst.

"– on water"

John rubbed his eyes again and sat down heavily on the edge of the bathtub, too tired to give a damn that Sherlock was stark naked in a bubble bath and still managing to be more composed than he was.

"I put the solution on my head – a solution which I knew perfectly well was safe, by the way – and turned on the shower head to rinse it. I did not expect that the water would be scalding hot as it was. With hindsight, it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that it was in fact water that was burning me, and not some terrible chemical mistake. The water then cooled to an acceptable temperature, and you made your...dramatic entrance, causing me to become aware of the obvious. In conclusion, my experiment was not wrong, you were."

"Oh _what? _You...oh never mind. You were wrong. You know you were. I'm going to bed now, and you should too. You're clearly too tired to take a bath safely."

Sherlock grumbled but didn't argue.

Before leaving the room, John threw a towel at his roommate.

"In future, you leave household products to the professionals."

"But –"

"No buts. If I come home one day to find home-made toilet cleaner or something, I'll make you wash your hair with it, alright."

There was no answer.

But Sherlock never did try it again.

**A/N:**

**It's an actual song, I swear! Haha**


	5. Little Lion Man

**Little Lion Man**

The empty warehouse was sparsely lit and eerily cold. Four men stood in two teams, face to face and waiting. They waited for someone to break the silence.

The youngest member of the four was named Gallagher. He had dark, rusty hair and an innocent face sprinkled with freckles and acne. He was barely twenty, but he held his expression as one of murderous contempt, gun out and loaded. But he was slipping; his discomfort was evident and his strain showed. His forehead was clammy, he breathed heavily as if he had just completed a strenuous race. He was trapped; cornered, tested by the man who had helped him from his despair and ruthlessly pushed him into more. He was cracking.

The other man was nameless and unreadable. A malicious smirk tore apart the features of his round, stony head. Stained and broken teeth stood out starkly against his chalky skin. His hair was thinning and mousey. Light caught his face, revealing one gold tooth and small dark eyes. It seemed wise not to underestimate this man. He was impossibly tall, at least a foot above Sherlock. He was thick necked and solid. No doubt he was a seasoned criminal.

Opposite them were Sherlock and John.

Sherlock was his usual dark tower of personality and reckless abandon. John was taking a slightly less carefree attitude. He knew that boy, Gallagher. He knew him from the war. He watched him now; his twitching face, unsteady hands...He remembered Gallagher: a small kid, a scared one. Gallagher, if he remembered rightly, had not had an easy time of it. He had been seen as something of a runt among the unit. Perhaps fairly so, he had never reached the standard of strength and stamina required for active service, not even close. John had seen the boy far too often in need of medical help. He had pushed himself too far; he wanted to prove himself to the other soldiers. Gallagher would have no sense talked into him. No amount of persuasion would convince him that his attempts were foolish, and often dangerous. As someone who had spent his school years as a small and undervalued child, John had known that, one day, Gallagher would know the futility of his efforts. He would never win their respect through his desperation.

As well as his physical afflictions, Gallagher had struggled to cope psychologically. He couldn't deal with the heat of the barren climate. He had suffered chronic homesickness. He had broken down, both physically and mentally. As a consequence, he had been recommended for discharge. But Gallagher had been adamant: he could, and would, be a soldier.

Well, he never was a very good soldier, but he fought through the depression and rejection of his new life more valiantly than John had ever seen. He had been proud of him for that.

Even so, how he stuck it out so long was a mystery. Somehow Gallagher had still been there, after three months of deployment, when John's army career had met a violent and bloody end. John wondered about the circumstances for the boys discharge. Judging by the nervous fear and controlled ferocity of him now, Gallagher had not recovered.

Then there was life in the eyes of the older, nameless man.

"You've had your fun, detective. Now it's my turn: I will watch you die."

There was a deep rumbling that came from somewhere deep inside of John, low and predatory: a warning. He was not unarmed, he was not unprepared. This man was responsible for needless pain and unwarranted killings. He was responsible for the death of several children. He killed slowly. He needed to be removed from society, and John would not hesitate to delete him from it altogether.

The man with no name laughed throatily. "Something wrong, little man?"

He had a familiar accent. A local boy then.

John didn't speak.

"Well," the man continued, flashing a toothy, yellow smile, "maybe we will kill you last, so you can see your master die a coward's death."

This time both Sherlock and John reacted with scorn and disgust.

"He's not my _master," _John said, with revulsion.

At the same time Sherlock said something disparaging. He was mainly sneering at the part about "a coward's death".

The man exhaled, rolling his piggy little eyes. "I'm getting tired of this. Gallagher, deal with them. They're not worth a real murdering, a bullet or two will do."

Gallagher was watching John, eyes full of apprehension. He recognised him, John was sure of it. He wouldn't shoot. John was sure of that, too.

He put a hand up, trying to show that he meant no harm; no bloodshed. Sherlock watched sceptically.

"Gallagher. You don't have to do this."He tried to speak as calmly as possible, reaching out the terrified young soldier how he always had.

The older man laughed. "You don't know what you're dealing with, little man. This boy here may be a filthy coward, but he will do what I tell him."

"No." John started to feel the first threads of panic. His plan wasn't working.

The gold tooth sparked as its owner grinned at them like animals in a slaughter house.

"He is in debt to me." He said darkly. Then he smirked at John, "I'm getting tired of your pitiful weeping's, little man. Gallagher, I want you to put a bullet in his brain, immediately."

Gallagher stepped forward, trying hard to look determined. John went to move closer, but Sherlock caught his arm.

"John, what are you doing?" he hissed.

He pulled away from Sherlock's grasp with a reassuring nod.

"Trust me," he said.

They looked at each other for a long moment. And then Sherlock nodded.

He trusted John. There had to be some method in his madness.

With this approval, John squared up to the young Gallagher. He faced the gun readily. Confidence was key.

Shakily, the gun was raised. It was mere centimetres from John's head, aligned with his brain. Even with the tremor of Gallagher's hands, there was no chance of missing if he shot now.

John kept eye contact, evenly searching the face of the threat.

"Stop it." The young man shuddered.

John stood firm. "Stop what?"

Gallagher blinked fast and looked down, away from John's incisive stare.

"Stop that!"

His voice broke several times in the small words.

John raised his eyebrows but didn't ask again.

Gallagher gave a choking sob and pressed the gun to John's head. "Stop LOOKING at me like that. I'm about to kill you. Don't you _understand_?"

He sounded manic, he was losing the little self-possession he had left.

"Perfectly," John said.

"I have a gun. I know how to kill, you know I do."

"You're stalling."

"I'm making you SUFFER."

"Hm," a small smile escapes John's smooth expression. It aggravates Gallagher.

"I will end you."

His words are sharp and desperate.

John stands his ground, looking Gallagher dead in his simple brown eyes. "I'm ready," he says. "Are you?"

That was what cracked him. Gallagher let out a piercing shriek and threw the gun away into the shadows, sinking down into a small ball.

In that moment the nameless man roared with fury and leapt towards John.

"Right then," he screamed, "I will finish both of you myself!"

He kicked the sobbing Gallagher from his path and dived at John.

Sherlock appeared from nowhere, collided heavily with his side. They wrestled for a second, before Sherlock received a strong punch to the nose that sent him to the floor with a dull thud.

John took hold of the larger man from behind, twisting his arms back and getting him into an unbreakable chokehold. Due to the sheer size of the man, John found himself literally hanging off his back, praying he still had the strength to keep him paralysed.

Sherlock was up again, blood running down his face. He dusted off his coat and faced them boldly. He was lit up with adrenaline and rage.

"Who are you?" he asked, and his voice was thick. John suspected a broken nose.

"You know who I am, Sherlock Holmes! I am the torture artist; a legend among the underbelly of this dirt city. I am the infamous!"

"Tell me your name!"

John pushed his hand into the man's vocal chords. He spluttered and his mouth flapped open and shut like a fish as he attempted to talk.

"Let's make one thing clear," he whispered angrily, "you can speak because I allow you to; abuse that privilege and you might never speak again. Is that understood?"

The man grunted in pain as John released the pressure and pressed back into his windpipe.

"Is that _understood?"_ He repeated the words threateningly.

"Yes sir."

Sherlock grinned at the sound of his defeat.

John should have known better than to ease up, even for a second, but when he did he took an elbow to the ribs, and suddenly he was being bucked and dislodged. Within seconds he was on his back on the solid concrete floor of the warehouse.

John grabbed the gun from his jacket and got up quickly. He wore leather gloves, and he was very glad of that now.

"You," he addressed the giant of a man, "you've brought this on yourself."

There was a click as he loaded the weapon.

The man seemed worried now. Was it possible that he was unarmed?

He put up both his hands in surrender. His face twisted into a pacifying smile that looked both awkward and out of place on him.

Then the self-proclaimed torture-artist reached into his jacket and revealed a shiny, silver gun.

He sneered at John. "Doctor Watson, are you really prepared to kill; you, a man of _healing?"_

"Oh. So you know who I am, then. Well you should know something about me: I am always prepared to kill."

The shot rang out clear and echoed endlessly around the abandoned building.

The nameless man fell to the ground with a look of surprise and a bullet in his heart.

"That's the thing about being a doctor," he said, to no one in particular. "I can put you back together, but I can just as easily take you apart_._"

**A/N:**

**I'm going away for 2 days now, so I will update when I get home!**

**Lots of love for the reviews, they're so encouraging and I can't thank you enough :)**


	6. Asleep

**Asleep**

When John arrived home late from work he found the flat to be deathly quiet.

There was no sign of Sherlock. There was no clutter to indicate an experiment had taken place. His equipment had actually been packed away.

Looking closer, John found a large cardboard box brimming with Sherlock's science apparatus and tubs of flasked substances. They were not packed away neatly; rather they appeared to have been shoved into the old box was no regard for their value or delicacy. The arrangement was frantic and John knew that it was probably an indication of Sherlock's current mood. It didn't look good. He would never have treated the set with such disturbance if he was feeling well.

It was with some trepidation that he looked round Sherlock's door, knocking softly on its exterior as he did so.

"Sherlock," he called out into the gloom.

The curtains were drawn. The bed appeared to have been slept in, and it looked like someone might still be sleeping in it. But the shape was too small to be Sherlock. Wasn't it?

He went to the bed and peeled back the duvet slightly.

"Sherlock, you there?"

He wasn't. Instead he found himself looking at several pillows which had been stuffed into a vaguely human-like form beneath the quilt. John looked at them in confusion; it was surely a coincidence, the effort seemed too juvenile, too haphazard, to be an attempt from Sherlock to deceive him. If Sherlock really wanted John to believe he was asleep here he would have achieved it somehow.

After a quick sweep of all the possible hiding places, (though why Sherlock would be hiding he did not know) John left the room on search mode.

It had been a long day and he only hoped this was nothing serious.

He considered the options while he whisked about the small space they shared: Sherlock was more than capable of taking care of himself. This thought didn't bring John much comfort, though. He knew that he would only feel better when he knew for sure that Sherlock hadn't gotten himself into some trouble in his absence. It was a plausible option; it wouldn't be the first time.

Thinking back, when John had left Baker Street that morning he had noticed Sherlock's deteriorating state of mind. It had not been unexpected. It was unavoidable that with the normality of a case-closed there would come stasis and, with that, a fall into some unpleasant all-consuming emotion for Sherlock. Sometimes this was in the form of anger, a sort of pulsating frustration that often left walls damaged and the flat in tatters of mayhem. Sometimes it manifested in a bleak depression that could last anything from a few days to weeks on end. It worried him that Sherlock might be out in the world like that. He wasn't himself, and that made the possibilities so much more dangerous.

The most likely scenario, however, was that Sherlock had found a case and was perusing it. That didn't account for the organised disorganisation of the kitchen or the strange pillow-plot, but even so, he took out his phone and sent a text. He would have preferred to call, but the chances of Sherlock picking up a ringing phone were slim to none.

**Where are you?**

That would suffice, for now.

He set about making a cup of tea, pushing Sherlock from his mind. He would reply and everything would be fine. Worrying like this was needless. Or that's what he tried to tell himself, at least. And it really had been a long day...

20 minutes later, the paper had been read and the tea drank, but he had not yet received a reply.

He frowned down at the mobile in his hand. It was nearing midnight.

He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he was running out of options. It couldn't be a case; if it was a case he would usually probably have pulled John into it by now. And it was out of character for Sherlock to not reply to John's texts, even if he wouldn't talk out loud he would send an incessant stream of messages. Unless there was something...wrong. John knew that he couldn't just go to sleep now. It went against all his instincts and, if there was one thing John had learned in his life, it was that he had to trust his instincts. They had saved his skin more times than he cared to mention.

Sighing, he sent one more text.

**Have you seen Sherlock today? **

It did the trick. Within 5 minutes there was a call coming through.

He picked up on the first ring.

"Lestrade," he said by way of a greeting.

"John," the detective inspector sounded groggy. "He's not with you?"

"No sign of him. You haven't seen him around the yard, at all?"

"No. I dropped by Baker Street this afternoon –he wasn't answering my texts and we needed his help. He wasn't interested. Threw me out, actually."

John's heart sank. This didn't bode well.

"So, not a case then," he said, attempting indifference.

"Nah...I mean, unless he changed his mind..."

"Go on."

"Well, see, there's a killer on the loose; as usual, right," Lestrade stopped briefly to chuckle at his own joke.

John cleared his throat and he stopped abruptly.

"Ah, as I was saying, Sherlock was pretty sure that he'd solved the case before I'd even given him the details. Said it was obvious."

"He always says that."

"Yeah, but he said could find the guy and he knew where. Wouldn't tell me anything else, that's when he got angry and kicked me out. Didn't want to join the investigation, apparently," Lestrade mumbled the last part, evidently still annoyed from the experience.

"We need to find him."

"Well, yeah..." Lestrade said slowly, and John could almost hear his mind ticking for alternatives. "Maybe I'm wrong, though. He's probably fine. He always is."

"I'm not so sure. He never does this. Not like this."

Lestrade paused.

"John, that's not a lot to go on. And anyway, he's a grown man and I'm tired."

"You're not going to help?" John asked sharply.

"Course I am. But I'll give him a bloody earful when we find him. Look, I'm gonna sort myself out and I'll meet you at Baker Street in half an hour tops. And John...?"

"Yes?"

"Bring your gun...you know, just in case."

For a moment he could only stand in blank surprise. Lestrade knew about the gun. What else did he know?

He shook himself, Lestrade was not an idiot. He was a good detective.

"I will."

* * *

Coat on, there was just one thing missing.

He ran up the stairs to his room and went immediately to his bedside table. Then his gun was in his hand, and the reality of the situation was unavoidable.

He placed the gun down on the table with a clatter. He needed a moment.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he fell onto his back, stretching out. Straight away he hit an object; a large, squishy object. He was not alone.

Instantly, John leapt to his feet and turned with alarm to stare down at the disturbance. A muffled groan was heard from somewhere in the depths of duvet.

He threw back the covers.

Sherlock Holmes blinked up at him, his face drawn and shadowy. He had obviously just been sleeping.

John ran a hand wearily through his hair and promptly collapsed onto the mattress beside Sherlock. He wasn't even annoyed. He didn't have enough energy to be.

He hadn't thought to check his bedroom. Why would Sherlock be in here anyway?

This was ridiculous.

Mainly, though, he just felt embarrassed. He had overreacted. Sherlock was here, and he was fine. He had managed to stress himself to the point of exhaustion, for no reason at all. He had disturbed Greg Lestrade much needed sleep; because God knows that man worked hard enough. All in all, he hadn't handled the situation well. And that was quite embarrassing.

Ignoring Sherlock's sniffling, John took out his mobile and text Lestrade.

**Found him. All fine.**

He then threw the small device into the corner of the room and fixed the detective with a cold hard stare.

"Sherlock," he growled.

Sherlock just pulled the duvet back up around himself, curling up small as he did so.

"I couldn't sleep," he said.

He sounded so young. There was something in the sound of his words, it was almost...ashamed. He was never ashamed, not that John knew of. He tilted his head against the pillow, peering at Sherlock, trying to unravel the strange behaviour. One look at him and John could tell that he was telling the truth. He was hit in the gut with the expression on his friend's face.

"You ok?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but reached out in the darkness and wrapped his cold fingers tightly around John's wrist. He didn't try to hide his face, though he looked like he was trying not to. He kept staring ahead, searchingly, like he was willing John to understand.

It was so rare that Sherlock let himself be so completely vulnerable. But this was one of those times. Sherlock was in the dark side of his great mind, and he needed his John.

"Tell me," John says. "Tell me what it's like."

Sherlock considers this. Could he possibly explain it? His head was full of words and facts and skills. But could he explain it?

He didn't think so.

"Just try," John says, as if in response to Sherlock's thought process. "It might help."

"If only it were that simple." Sherlock said. He closed his eyes, hiding the scared, lost look that they held.

No one spoke as he tried to assemble the right words.

It was more difficult even than he had thought it would be. He always knew the right thing to say, except when it came to John. He wondered why that was.

There was only one explanation of all the facts: John mattered. What John thought of Sherlock _mattered._ John could be trusted. His loyalty was definite. And that could render Sherlock speechless.

John was patient. He had known instinctively that anger was not the appropriate response today. John always knew what to say to Sherlock.

"I...don't know." Sherlock said the words like a revelation.

They lay in silence.

"It's alright."

"Is it?"

"I'm here."

"Yes."

Sherlock tried again to gather his feelings; to put them into something structured and understandable. The effort was in vain.

"John...?"

His voice was small, completely devoid of its usual knowing swagger.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You...for that...I don't know. Just..."

John squeezed Sherlock's cold hand gently in the warmth of his own.

"I understand, Sherlock," he says softly. "I understand."

**A/N:**

**Sorry this took a bit longer to get done. I've not been feeling so great myself. It makes it hard to stay motivated. But meh, I try. **

**Let me know what you think, or even if you want to request a song prompt. I'm up for a challenge.**


	7. Blue Eyes

**Blue Eyes**

It was not John's habit to go out drinking. After all, he was long past the days of university binging and wearing a hangover like a medal of honour. Not to mention his aversion to the stuff that came with growing up with an alcoholic father and sister. No, as a general rule he stayed away. That was not to say that he didn't drink, but that when he did it tended to be rather spectacular.

Today, or tonight rather, John had agreed to meet Lestrade for a pint. Sherlock had received his complimentary invitation, which was swiftly rejected, and so he was left alone and sulking when John went "off gallivanting with louts". John had said that was a little harsh. Sherlock had muttered something which sounded suspiciously like "football hoodlums" before rolling off the sofa to mumble disparaging comments at the carpet. John shrugged and left.

It was some time later when Sherlock began to receive the voicemails. The first one arrived just as he was admiring the growth rate of the mould on the old loaf he'd been keeping under the sink. He had thought it best not to pick up the phone. He didn't want to hear drunken ramblings when there were experiments to be conducted. Anyway, it would be nonsense; it was always nonsense, John just tended to be _that kind _of drunk. Sherlock made a point to pay no attention whatsoever to the buzzing mobile on the kitchen table.

After he was satisfied that the mould was coming along nicely, and there was no more remotely explosive chemicals left to play with, he turned his attention back to the phone calls. He was entirely unsurprised to find that all 5 voicemails where from one John Watson, who was undoubtedly plastered by now. Sherlock swept himself up to his full height, though there was no one there to impress, and took the phone to sit with him by the fire. If nothing else they would give him a little entertainment...

"Hey Sherlock," John began, "I was thinking. You know that place that sells...er, what was it?" He trailed off, seeming to then take this question up with his company. After a muffled conversation he returned. "Hi. Yeah, Greg says its sushi, but I reckon he's wrong. I hate sushi."

End of message.

Sherlock looked at where John's voice had been with amusement. This really was a new level of lunacy. Oh, he was going to enjoy tomorrow...

Next message:

A stream of tinny laughter blurted out. It was the sort of laughter that you hear in a pub, where no one really knows what was said or why it was funny but insist on inflicting their raucous noise on everyone in the vicinity anyway. "Christ. Hello mate. Greg said you must be the worst flatmate imaginable. You're not though, because in uni I had a roommate who adopted cats."

Sherlock checked the times. So far they were from _fairly_ early on. This was only going to get better...

Message number three:

"Sherlock," John's voice was a hushed whisper and he sounded anxious. "Sherlock, there's a bloke here with a tattoo on his nose. That's not normal, is it? Greg, is that normal? On his _nose?_ God, that's weird." There was a sudden intake of breath, and then, "Ah. No. Sorry mate, nice...yeah, nice tattoo –"

It ended suddenly, leaving Sherlock to ponder the possibility that those had been John's last words and that his death-defying friend had met his match in an angry man with a nose tattoo. He decided that he had better find out.

Message Four:

"It was a piercing. I meant piercing. Nose piercing..."

Well he sounded alive, if his voice was anything to go by. He reflected for a moment on the last time he'd heard John this drunk...it had been a few days after christmas and he was back from a visit to his sister in Manchester. He had offered no explanation, but produced several bottles of cheap spirits and proceeded to drink them all. He finished this display by making a massive bowl of cereal and attempting to eat them with a knife and fork, becoming thoroughly disgruntled when this proved more difficult than he thought it should have been. Anyway...

Message five:

"Hey. Your eyes are blue aren't they? I thought so. Anyway we're in a street now. Greg says to tell you you're a massive twat. See you, Shrlck."

Really, what was he doing with his vowels? It was absurd.

One more...

"Ha! You will NOT believe this, Sherlock. But we're lost. In London! Isn't that funny? Oh, and I saw a dog that kind of looks like Anderson. I don't even know. We're somewhere in London, probably. I mean, I think I can get away with it, but Greg has no excuse. Shall I tell him you said he was a useless fucker? I will do. Tada."

Sherlock heaved up from his comfortable seat and faced the door. He was going to have to get them back somehow; preferably not in a match box.

As he left the flat he dialled John's number. It took a while, but eventually a disoriented sounding John answered.

"Yes...?"

"John. Where are you at?"

John giggled.

"John! Put Lestrade on the line, now."

"Fine, fine."

It turned out that Lestrade was no saner than John.

"Hello you!" Lestrade sounded like he'd been drinking helium.

"Oh God."

"How are you, you tall...tall 'un." Well, at least his voice sounded normal again.

"Excuse me, no. Put John back on."

"Old blue eyes! Hey, Sherlock, you have nice eyes. And that's not me confessing my undying love for you, that's a fact. Even John says so."

"Tell me where you are? Give me a land mark or something!"

"We've discussed it, and it turns out that you have blue eyes. Not green. And definitely not the colour of Boris Johnson's hair." It was John, and he slurred out his sentence with an air of great achievement.

Sherlock shuddered, hurrying to hail a taxi. This wasn't funny anymore. He was going to kill John...

* * *

20 minutes later, and minus a singing Lestrade, Sherlock was heaving John up the stairs to their flat. This was no mean feat; the doctor was heavy for a man of 5"7 tops. John seemed to be having the time of his life, though; mainly at Sherlock's expense, which made a change. He laughed and clapped Sherlock on the back as he gladly put all of his weight against the spindly legged detective.

"Hey, Sherlock, you're a pal. I mean, you are a real pal."

Sherlock concentrated on getting John through the doors of their flat, offering some form of reassurance that, yes he had blue eyes, and no he didn't like sushi either, and yes we're friends (and please stop slapping my face now or I'll leave you to sleep on the floor...).That sort of thing.

After much persistence from Sherlock, and a fair amount of resistance from John, he was successful in getting the older man down on the sofa, throwing a blanket down in an attempt to prevent him from falling off in the night. It would have to do. There was no way he could get him up to his room tonight, not when they were both so tired.

Before leaving for his own room Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, steadying his breathing and thinking wistfully about the ways in which he was going to extract his revenge.

"Shrlck." John gave Sherlock a little push on the head for good measure; prompting a tiny succession of complaints, which he ignored.

"Sherlock," John said in a sing-song voice, patting him on the shoulder.

"What is it?"

John smiled. "Just checking you're alive. Ths'all."

Sherlock scowled at the drunk man, who appeared half gone, despite his cheer.

"You'd be an unbearable alcoholic, John. Goodnight."

"Thanks dear. Bluey blue eyes!"

There's only so much Sherlock can put up with, even from John. Now he realised that he drew the line at pet names. Going to voice this, he looked down as John, who wriggled happily under the fraying blanket, and gave up. It was time to leave him to his devices. Sherlock would get his revenge come the morning...

**A/N:**

**This prompt was requested by ****quotegilikay****, who I'd like to thank for being the most lovely and supportive reader EVER.**

**Thanks for reading! **


	8. Life slash Dreams

**Set the day after Blue Eyes...**

* * *

**Life Slash Dreams**

Sherlock crept into the living room that morning fully prepared to give John hell. It wasn't that he was angry, particularly; it was just because he had an excuse now, and he'd be damned before letting that go.

However, upon seeing his flatmate it became abundantly clear that this was not a day for winding up John...at least not if he didn't want a right hook to the face.

John was pacing rigidly up and down the kitchen. His gait leaned heavily to a limp and he held an expression of deep-seated frustration.

Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock sidled away to stretch out on his armchair. One eye stayed trained on the distressed soldier, though he tried to pretend otherwise. He twisted to a sitting position, wrapping his long arms around his knees and watching John carefully.

John had stopped pacing. He leaned on the counter, back to Sherlock, muttering swearwords in a language he hadn't used since Afghanistan. He turned on the kettle with a fist.

Though Sherlock had been told numerous times that he wasn't to make deductions about John on days like this, it didn't mean he could stop them forming in his head. It was obvious that this wasn't an entirely hangover induced cloud that was hanging over his friend. In the night he had stayed quiet when he heard the signs: John was having a nightmare. He never did interrupt. John had warned him that he could get violent if woken unexpectedly; especially if he was in the middle of a war dream. Being Sherlock, he had not taken the warning at face value. He needed data. How dangerous could anyone be when they were half-asleep anyway? Well, he had learned.

Last night the nightmares had been back in full force, with only one thing different: John had been on the sofa. He knew it had been cowardly of him, but Sherlock had stayed absolutely frozen behind his bedroom door. He couldn't help. He heard every turn, every defiant shout, every scream...But he couldn't help.

And now John was limping. He was in pain. Sherlock didn't think it had hurt him this bad in a while. But then again, what did Sherlock know? Maybe the other man had just become very good at hiding it. That did seem like the kind of ridiculous thing John would invest energy in to.

John reached up to get a clean mug, realising a dilemma in that he couldn't lean on his right arm or left leg. This resulted in a fresh stream of swear words and a noise that wouldn't have been out of place on a wildlife documentary.

It was probably time to step in, Sherlock decided.

He wandered over to the kitchen in a way that tried to say "I'm only doing this so I can finally have a cup of tea since you are clearly incapable of making me one," (a sentiment that Sherlock though John might appreciate right now), but really said something more like, "I want to help. Please don't call me out on this fact."

John didn't seem to pick up on or even care about the presence of Sherlock. It didn't even seem to register with him. He turned and stumped over to the closest of the hard, wooden chairs. Once sat down he just stared into space.

When a steaming mug of tea appeared in front of him he didn't even blink. Sherlock sat opposite; completely open in his staring.

"John. I made you tea."

John did nothing.

"I never make tea, though."

This was met with the same blank expression.

"I made it how you like it. Aren't you going to drink it?"

No reply.

Sherlock snapped his fingers and he could almost see dust rising from the suddenly comatose man. This wasn't normal John behaviour. He didn't like to worry people, least of all Sherlock.

"John, if you don't answer me I'm going to do something drastic. Can you hear me?"

John nodded then, taking a large gulp from the mug. Sherlock watched, feeling slightly horrified and equally helpless as John downed the entire thing in about 3 seconds. There was no way it hadn't burned him. It took a moment of bitter shock before Sherlock threw back his chair and ran the sink, filling a glass of dubious cleanliness with water.

He didn't give it to John, opting instead to go straight for the face, pouring the cold liquid down his throat rather too quickly.

John let it happen, responding with complete trust and a certain amount of blind faith. He didn't seem to understand and he didn't seem be hurt. Water ran down his face and onto his shirt. John would have done something about that. He did nothing now.

Sherlock racked his brain for what could possibly be going on inside John's. He knew his flatmate still suffered with nightmares and occasional shoulder pain, but besides what he could physically see and deduce his knowledge of John's psychological problems was shamefully low. John didn't want to talk about it and Sherlock understood that. Mycroft had wanted to give him information; he had wanted to give him all the information there was about Captain John Watson, MD. Sherlock wasn't a man who adhered to morals, but he had rejected these offers. That would be too easy. He wanted to figure out John for himself. And also there was the fact that Sherlock mentally backed-off whenever the evidence was laid out before him. He knew that John didn't want to be thought of as damaged. Sherlock didn't want to think of him like that either. He was the strong one. John wasn't scared of anything. Except that he was, and they both knew it.

Sherlock tried to start a conversation again – something which he thought was testament to their friendship, as he aimed to never converse with anyone unless there was something in it for him.

"Are you alright?"

It was a simple enough question, but he hadn't expected an answer.

"Fine."

He nodded with relief, but one look and he knew that John was not back yet. His eyes still had that glazed over, glassy look to them. His choice word had been robotic. Sort of like an answering machine.

At a loss, Sherlock sat back down.

"I'm...should I call someone? What do you need me to do?"

He sounded troubled. Somehow Sherlock felt that he was alone, but that was all wrong.

"I'll call...who should I call? Sarah?"

John stirred. "No," he said. "I'm alright."

He did seem to be waking up; if that was the right word. There was a flash of life behind his dull stare and he roused himself, making a sudden move to his feet. Sherlock was at his side in an instance, foreseeing the collapse before it happened. John held onto Sherlock, his eyes watering dangerously.

"Oxycodone," he hissed, his teeth clenched together, "in the bathroom cabinet. Now, please."

He pulled something small and shiny out of his pocket and slapped it onto Sherlock's palm. There was no stopping to analyse the thought process behind this keys existence. The urgency and pain in John's voice where enough to send him on his way without a question. Though not before John was seated and stable once again.

Sherlock had never realised how well stocked the bathroom cabinet was before. It didn't matter. But opening it today he was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of medication there was in here. The variation was unsettling. Either John just preferred to be ready to face an army of casualties at all times, or he had genuine concerns about Sherlock's ability to stay alive. Really, the collection was too impressive for him give any more thought to that. He was awed by the towering piles of neatly ordered pills, whose names often filled the entire of their exposed surface; and the tiny glass bottles, of which at least half weren't legal in the UK. He dithered, connecting names to substances and atoms and everything and anything he could take from them. He joined the dots, filing them away with their counterparts as carefully as John had arranged them in his locked gold-mine of medicine. Sherlock thinks it might be the beautiful thing he's ever seen.

A wounded shout draws him harshly back to reality. Sherlock took his cue to begin pawing through the home pharmacy in search of Oxycodone. When this took more than a few seconds he began to rush, disturbing the balance of the already precarious system. It was with no small amount of regret that he pulled down box after box, trying not to break anything as he ransacked the cabinet. It took too long, but he found it; right at the back between some co-codomal and a pack of sterile syringes. He didn't read further, he just left the newly chaotic bathroom and went to find John.

He didn't have to look far.

"John...you really shouldn't have moved, you know."

John grunted from his armchair.

It's pointless to tell him off. He's comfier there anyway. John knows best.

That's something Sherlock won't admit, but he's been observing and he knows. John is always right. He's not the most luminous of people, Sherlock once told him. He is a conductor of light. He is the earth to Sherlock's electricity. John is not a genius. But he is always right.

John shouldn't be in pain.

Later, in the evening, they sat in their corresponding chairs and the fire glowed on full. John was absorbed in a tatty paperback book that looked like it had been dropped in the bath at least 13 times. Sherlock sat motionless, thinking. And for once, he wasn't thinking much at all. He didn't want to pick this apart in his head. Why theorise when John was right there. John liked talking. He recommended it, in fact. While it was true that he didn't talk about himself much, Sherlock had learnt that he was not averse to trying. Sometimes it would make him sad, but he knew sincerity when he heard it. That's what would make him try. So Sherlock tried not to theorise.

He cleared his throat.

John caught his eye. He smiled. There it was already. He knew. John set his book aside, fondly flattening out one of its dog-eared corners.

"What happened to you this morning?"

It wasn't a simple question, but he knew John would answer.

John smiled again, but he looked down. The book was back in his hands and he was turning it, over and over. He flicked the pages from start to finish. He didn't answer.

Sherlock didn't know how to continue. He watched John, who seemed neither uncomfortable nor happy, but somewhere in between.

The fire light washed over them. It wasn't the only light in the room, but it was the one that they liked the most. Now it basked warmly over the curl of John's book as it turned one way and then the next in his hands. Sherlock saw the cover for a second.

John leaned back on to the cushions of his seat.

"You ever read Tolkien?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't know sincerity. He didn't always recognise sarcasm. As a boy he hadn't known if he had friends. Not at first. He didn't like to think now of the times he had been laughed at; taken for a fool and strung along. Sherlock Holmes was not a fool. He'd told them so. He'd told them he was a genius. Needless to say, that hadn't helped his case. Sometimes things stuck, and they hurt. Some things don't delete, no matter how hard you try...

"The hobbit books," John tried.

"You know I don't read fiction." Sherlock replied coldly.

"You should try it. Sometimes...real life just isn't that good."

Sherlock blinked at him, trying to find the subtext to the sentence. There was always subtext when John got like this. He liked to talk in riddles. Sherlock sometimes wondered if this was deliberate; if John was trying to make him look for the deeper meaning, to help him, perhaps. Mostly, though, it was just his was of being honest about his feelings. He would say something layered, knowing that it would take Sherlock days to figure out what he really meant. Alternatively, Sherlock would never work it out.

"You know," John said, "sometimes...switching off...it's not always a bad thing."

"You're going to have to explain a bit further John."

Sherlock sat up, and John was struck with the idea that he was like a big, proud bird, ruffling his feathers.

"Do you want me to read a book or go to sleep?"

John laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"This morning was difficult. You know that."

"Was it a flashback?"

John pressed the old paperback to his lips, inhaling its wonderfully woody smell.

"Not a flashback." He said.

"What then?"

"You ever felt like...like you aren't real."

"John...?"

"...like you lose reality."

"What? John, you didn't...take something, did you?"

Sherlock's heart beat embarrassingly loud. He had never been this person. He was the one who hurt himself. His was the body that didn't matter. Not John. Not ever.

"No, no, of course I didn't. I just...it's just something that happens sometimes."

"I don't understand."

"It's called depersonalisation."

He searched his memory but came up empty. Something clicked, though. The word made sense. It sounded right. He couldn't place it.

"It just means that, sometimes...I'm not here, exactly. I'm just sort of...watching. I wasn't expecting it today. Probably should have been..."

It was obvious that John had never told this to anyone before. He drummed his fingers over his book, nervously.

"You...you really do have to explain. I may be fantastic but I'm not Wikipedia."

"Depersonalisation disorder," he said. "It's a form of dissociation, often associated with post traumatic stress disorder."

"Dissociation," Sherlock murmured, looking for anything he hadn't deleted on the matter. It was slim pickings.

"Multiple personality disorder?" he suggested.

"No. Well, not for me. It hasn't been that bad in a while...not since I came here. Anyway, I used to be able to function through it. I could act normal. I could even work in an episode. That isn't recommended, mind you..."

"Wait. So this has happened before. I haven't noticed? How can that be? I notice everything."

"Sometimes you don't notice when I am literally not here," John reminded him.

"Yes, but," Sherlock spluttered, "This is ridiculous!"

John licked his lips, something which he did often and for various reasons, none of which were good. Sherlock had said something wrong. He knew he should try and amend that, but he couldn't speak.

"Sherlock..." John sounded upset. He could tell by the sharp metallic edge in his tone, the one he used to hide his disappointment. "Yes. It's happened before. And you've seen me like that before. It actually started when I was a kid. I didn't tell anyone, I thought it happened to everyone. I mentioned it once, to friends; never lived it down. Since then I've gotten rather good at hiding it. So don't let it offend your _intellect._"

"My what? I didn't mean –"

"Didn't you?" John interrupted the stumbled objection, stubbornly looking anywhere but Sherlock.

"No! John, for an educated man you are rather obtuse."

John laughed humourlessly. "Yeah, I'm pig thick to you aren't I?"

"That is not what I meant."

John sighed. "I have no idea what you mean half the time. I like to think your joking sometimes, but what do I know?"

The irony was unbearable.

"Sorry," Sherlock said. It was a word he'd gotten better at saying recently. "Brain to mouth filter problem, remember?"

"I know."

For a few minutes they sat in companionable silence.

It was Sherlock who spoke first.

"What does it feel like? This thing you have."

John hesitated.

"It feels...like I'm not real. Like nothing's real. You go through the motions, but you're not experiencing anything. Like I said, it started when I was at school. Just, weird thoughts and stuff at first. I used to feel like I was a character sometimes. I felt like I could be anyone. I mean, literally, I felt like I could be someone else. But I was stuck. I know that sounds..."

He spoke quickly and quietly. It made it easier. A little bit easier.

"Then after Afghanistan, I'd almost forgotten about it all. But it came back when I was in hospital, back in England. I can't really describe it. Sounds very sci-fi, but it's all psychological."

"Amazing..." Sherlock breathed; knees up, hands a steeple under his chin.

"Excuse me?"

"The human mind," he said. "Fantastic, don't you think?"

"I suppose it is."

John thought for a moment, "Although...it did mean one good thing."

"What's that?"

"You haven't been bouncing off the walls with boredom all day."

John grinned properly then, and Sherlock let himself exhale suddenly; realising that the absence of this proper, heart-felt smile had kept him holding his breath all day.


End file.
